Mira woke before the alarm, her hand still curled around the glass shard. The morning light was pale and watery, filtering through the curtain like diluted milk. She slid the shard back under the mattress and dressed in her uniform, moving with the mechanical precision of someone who had learned to hide fear in routine.
Breakfast was oatmeal with dried apricots. She ate alone, but she noticed that Gemma kept glancing at her from the next table, her red hair catching the chandelier light. When Mira finished, Gemma appeared at her elbow.
"Walk with me to Classics," she said, her voice too bright. "I want to hear about Vostok."
Mira nodded and fell into step. The corridor was crowded with girls in navy blazers, their chatter a river of gossip and exam results. Gemma waited until they turned a corner, then lowered her voice.
"You went to the chapel yesterday. I saw you coming out."
Mira's pulse flickered, but her face remained still. "I was looking for the archive. For a history project."
"Bull." Gemma's eyes were sharp now, all pretense gone. "You're not the first scholarship girl to go poking around. The last one—a girl from Myrna, two years ago—she found something too. She ended up in the infirmary with a 'nervous breakdown.' Then she was gone. Transferred, they said."
Mira stopped walking. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm not stupid. I see the patterns. I see how the exchange students vanish, how the staff change every term, how the headmistress has a private phone line that rings at midnight." Gemma leaned closer. "My father is a barrister. He taught me to notice things. And I've noticed that you have the same look she had—the look of someone who's about to do something reckless."
"Then what do you suggest I do?" Mira asked quietly.
"Nothing. Keep your head down. Graduate. Get out." Gemma squeezed her arm. "You can't save them. You can only save yourself."
She walked away before Mira could respond, disappearing into a stream of girls heading towards the science wing. Mira stood for a moment, then turned towards the administrative building, her feet moving before her mind had fully decided.
The administrative building was a Georgian annex attached to the main hall, with sash windows and a red-brick facade that pretended to be charming. Inside, the corridors were carpeted and quiet, lined with doors bearing plaques: Bursar, Admissions, Alumni Relations. Mira walked past them until she reached a door marked Records — Authorised Personnel Only.
She tried the handle. Locked.
She pressed her ear to the wood. Silence. She knelt and examined the lock—a simple pin tumbler, old and worn. In the orphanage, she had learned to pick locks with a bobby pin and a straightened paperclip, a skill born of necessity when the pantry was locked and the children were hungry. She pulled a pin from her hair and worked it into the keyhole, feeling the familiar click of the pins falling into place.
The door swung open.
Inside was a windowless room lined with filing cabinets and a large oak desk. On the desk sat a leather-bound ledger, open to a page titled "International Placement Programme — FY 2025." Mira's hands trembled as she turned the pages. Each entry listed a girl's name, age, country of origin, and a "sponsor" name with a monetary figure. The figures ranged from fifteen thousand to two hundred thousand pounds. Beside each was a code: "H" for household, "M" for medical, "C" for companion.
Lina's entry was there: Petrov, Lina – 16 – Vostok – Sponsor: Morgan Holdings Ltd – 180,000 – M.
Mira's own name appeared further down: Kessler, Mira – 17 – Vostok – Sponsor: (pending) – code: P – note: "High-value – current evaluation – potential for Senatorial placement."
Her stomach turned. She flipped to the back of the ledger, where she found a folded document with the letterhead of Morgan Holdings—a shipping manifest for "humanitarian aid" that listed crates of medical supplies, but in the margins, handwritten annotations: "3 units, female, 14-18, suitable for transplant compatibility." Below, a signature: Phyllis Morgan, CEO.
She photographed the pages with her mind, memorizing every name and number, but she had no camera, no phone. She would have to copy everything by hand later. She slid the ledger back into its place and turned to leave—and nearly collided with a man standing in the doorway.
He was tall and gaunt, with silver-streaked hair and deep-set eyes that looked as though they had not slept in years. He wore a teacher's tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and a silver badge on his lapel identified him as K. Joshua, History.
"Miss Kessler," he said, his voice soft but without surprise. "I thought you might show up eventually."
Mira's hand instinctively went to her pocket, where the glass shard was hidden. "I was just—"
"Looking for the archive? It's down the hall." He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "I know what you're doing. And I know what you found."
She said nothing.
"Don't worry," he continued, stepping past her into the room and closing the door behind them. "I'm not here to stop you. I'm here to help. I used to be the head of the History department, until I started asking too many questions about the exchange programme. They fired me last year, but they let me stay on as a part-time tutor—probably to keep an eye on me." He pulled a folded paper from his inner pocket and handed it to her. "This is the location of the holding facility. Not the one on campus—the real one, where they keep the girls before shipment. It's a farmhouse thirty miles east of here, owned by a shell company linked to Morgan Holdings."
Mira unfolded the paper. It was a hand-drawn map, marked with roads and a red X. "Why are you giving me this?"
"Because I've been waiting for someone with your particular set of skills. You picked that lock in under a minute. You survived a war. You have nothing to lose." He leaned against the desk. "I have a contact at the Veridia Chronicle—a journalist who's been investigating trafficking for months. If we can get her proof, we can expose the whole network. But I can't do it alone. They know my face. They monitor my movements."
"And what makes you think they don't monitor mine?"
"Oh, they do. But they underestimate you. That's your advantage." He straightened and moved towards the door. "Meet me tonight at midnight, in the boiler room beneath the gymnasium. I'll have more information. And Mira—don't tell anyone. Not even your friendly red-haired friend."
He slipped out, leaving Mira alone with the ledger and the map. She folded the map into her sleeve and left the Records room, her mind spinning. She did not trust Joshua. His story was too convenient, his timing too perfect. But the map was real, and the manifest was real, and she had no other leads.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and forced smiles. In Latin, she translated passages about Roman slaves; in Biology, she dissected a frog while thinking about the "medical" code on Lina's entry. At supper, Dr. Cutter made a point of sitting beside her, her perfume cloying and sharp.
"Enjoying your studies, Mira?" the headmistress asked, cutting her salmon into precise squares.
"Yes, Dr. Cutter. Thank you."
"We have a special visitor tomorrow—a representative from the Morgan Foundation. They're one of our major benefactors. I'd like you to give them a tour of the school. Show them what our scholarship programme can achieve."
Mira's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "Me?"
"Your English is excellent. Your story is inspiring. And you have a certain... resilience that they admire." Dr. Cutter smiled, her teeth very white. "It's a great opportunity. Many of our scholarship girls have gone on to work for the Foundation after graduation. It's a path to a new life."
A path to a new life, Mira thought. Or a path to a shipping container.
"I'd be honoured," she said, her voice steady.
"Excellent. Wear your best uniform. And Mira—don't be nervous. Just be yourself." The headmistress patted her hand and rose, leaving Mira alone with the half-eaten salmon and a growing dread.
That night, Mira waited until the clock tower struck eleven, then she retrieved her notebook from the loose floorboard. She had moved it earlier that afternoon, after finding the ledger—now it was hidden inside the hollow leg of the wardrobe, wrapped in a plastic bag. She copied the names and figures from memory, adding the map details and Joshua's offer.
At five minutes to midnight, she crept down the back staircase to the gymnasium. The building was dark, but a single light burned in the boiler room, casting orange shadows through the grimy window. She pushed open the door and found Joshua standing beside the furnace, his face half-lit.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "I have more. The holding facility is guarded, but I've arranged for a distraction—a small fire in the east barn. That will draw the guards away for at least twenty minutes. During that window, you can get inside and photograph the files. They keep detailed records—buyer names, payment histories, transport routes."
"And what will you be doing?"
"I'll be creating a diversion elsewhere. I can't be seen with you." He handed her a disposable camera. "This is all I could get. It has twenty-four exposures. Make them count."
Mira took the camera, her fingers cold. "How do I know this isn't a trap? How do I know you're not working for them?"
Joshua's face hardened. "You don't. But if I were working for them, I wouldn't need to set a trap. I'd just call Cutter and have you disappeared tonight. The fact that I'm here, risking my neck, should tell you something."
He turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The farmhouse has a basement. That's where they keep the girls before transport. Lina might still be there—they don't always ship immediately. Sometimes they wait for organ matches."
Mira's heart hammered. "How long?"
"A week, maybe two. If she's still alive, she's in a holding cell. But you need to be fast." He disappeared into the darkness, leaving Mira alone with the camera and the map.
She returned to her room and lay awake, her mind churning with calculations. The fire was planned for Thursday night—the night before the Friday shipment. She would have one chance to reach the farmhouse, free the girls, and escape. But she had no transport, no ally, no exit strategy.
At three in the morning, she heard a soft knock on her door. She froze. The knock came again, three taps, then a pause, then two more—a pattern. She opened the door a crack, and found Gemma standing there, her face pale.
"Let me in," Gemma whispered. "Quick."
Mira stepped aside. Gemma slipped in and locked the door behind her. She was shivering, even though the room was warm.
"I followed you tonight," Gemma said. "I saw you meet with Joshua. I know about the farmhouse. I know about the ledger." She grabbed Mira's arm. "You're going to get yourself killed. And I can't let that happen."
"Why do you care?" Mira asked, pulling away.
"Because my sister was one of them. She was a scholarship girl, five years ago. She was 'transferred' to Ardelia, but I never heard from her again. I've been trying to find the truth ever since." Gemma's voice cracked. "I pretended I didn't care, because that's what they expect. But I've been gathering evidence too—photographs, names, dates. I have a contact in the police, but he's scared. They're all scared."
Mira looked at her for a long moment. Then she reached under the wardrobe and pulled out the notebook. "I have names. I have a map. I have a camera." She paused. "But I don't have a way out of the school. The gates are locked at night, and the walls are electrified."
Gemma smiled—a grim, determined smile. "I know a tunnel. It runs from the old laundry building to the woods beyond the perimeter. The laundry is abandoned, but the tunnel is still passable. I've used it before—to sneak out to meet a boy from the village." She blushed faintly. "It's tight, but it works."
Mira felt a spark of hope. "Then we do it together. Thursday night. We go through the tunnel, reach the farmhouse, photograph everything, and get back before dawn."
"And if we don't get back?"
"Then at least we won't be shipped." Mira held out her hand. Gemma took it, her grip firm.
They spent the next hour planning—routes, timings, backup signals. At four, Gemma slipped back to her room. Mira lay in bed, but she did not sleep. She watched the moonlight crawl across the ceiling and listened to the distant hoot of an owl, and she thought of Lina in a basement, waiting.
At dawn, she rose and dressed in her best uniform. Today, she would give a tour to the Morgan Foundation representative. She would smile and curtsy and pretend to be grateful.
But in her pocket, she carried the glass shard. And under her tongue, she held the bitter taste of a plan that could either save her—or bury her.
As she walked to the Great Hall, she passed the headmistress's office. The door was ajar, and she heard Dr. Cutter's voice on the phone: "—yes, the Vostok girl is ready. She'll be evaluated today. If she passes, we ship her next week, not Friday. The senator wants her for the winter gala. He likes them... spirited."
Mira stopped breathing. She pressed herself against the wall and listened.
"Understood. I'll keep her occupied until then. And make sure Joshua is watched—he's been meeting with students again. I want him neutralised by Wednesday." A pause. "No, not killed. Just discredited. A scandal, perhaps. We have plenty of photos from his private computer—enough to ruin him."
The phone clicked off. Mira crept away, her heart racing. She had less time than she thought. And Joshua was a target too.
She entered the Great Hall and took her seat. When the Morgan representative arrived—a polished woman in a pearl necklace, with a smile that did not reach her eyes—Mira shook her hand and gave the tour with perfect poise. She showed the chapel, the library, the science labs. She spoke of her gratitude, her dreams, her bright future.
But all the while, her mind was counting down the hours until Thursday—and wondering if Joshua would still be free to help, or if she would have to go it alone.
And as she led the representative towards the headmistress's office, she caught a glimpse of the steel door in the courtyard, freshly painted, with no trace of her cross in the mud. Someone had erased it.
Someone was watching.
She smiled wider and continued the tour, but her hand in her pocket gripped the shard so hard that her palm began to bleed.
The blood was warm, and it reminded her that she was still alive.
And being alive meant she could still fight.
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